


Inner Demons

by SheenaKazia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheenaKazia/pseuds/SheenaKazia
Summary: Just venting my feelings.





	Inner Demons

“Sorry this one isn't my fault”

I have heard these words so many times in so many different ways. They come from my own mouth and from those I keep close to me. Why though? Why do I keep hearing them? Why can't I stop making the mistakes, the choices, that lead to this? 

I sit alone in a small white room hundreds of miles away from anyone who holds a place in my heart. I stare at my phone screen knowing I need to write something so those faceless name waiting for my next half baked chapter for a story I made of someone else's great idea haven't wasted their time. I need to write something. I promised them something but every time I try the demons start talking again.

“This one is your fault”  
“I don't need this right now. I've got enough I'm trying deal with.”  
“This is not what I needed tonight but thanks for being supportive. 

What's wrong with me? All I do is screw up and make everyone else's lives harder. My sister, I've been her friend since the day I was born. I've always been a shoulder she could cry on when her current friends turned their back on her, always been at her side, yet I've never been fast enough to keep up. She makes new friends and leaves me in the dust. They make her happier than I ever can. It's my job to follow after and pick her up when they have their fun with her and leave. I am to stand strong and pick her up. It’s my job to mend my sister make her whole again. I'm supposed to make her smile. So why do I only ever seem to drag her down? Why do so many of our conversations end with us telling the other to go away. Why am I always left standing alone while she runs off to new friends? 

Why do I fail at being my sister's keeper?

I've always been her friend but she's no longer my friend. I can't come to her when the loneliness feels like it's suffocating me. 

Lonely.

It's a word I have heard all my life but no-one ever describes how it feels like to be all alone. They never warned me about it how would leave me feeling worthless, like there is no one out there for me. There was no word about how even calling out for someone, anyone, would weigh on me and makes me feel bothersome. I was never told how it could sap my energy and leave me lifeless. I wasn't aware of how it could make me resent myself for the apathy it chains to my heart. 

I'm wasting my potential.

I need to sit down and work. I'll never be anything but mediocre if I don't. Yet when I pick up my pen the doubt weighs on my hand and mind. Nothing I create is very good. Nothing I draw garnishes much attention. The more I try to improve the more I hear about how my older stuff was better but I do not know how to turn back into my old self. My art seems to be a dead end.  
So I'll write?  
I write and write and plot and think. I put my heart on the page in the form of text instead but still it's never good enough. I've written hundreds of pages and dozens of stories yet not one soul who's approval I yearn for has ever read a thing I've written.  
It's not my kind of story. I'm just not motivated.  
Nothing I do will ever be good enough. 

Why am I such a wretched child? I fall and scrape my knee, and to my mother I turn. A kind and gentle soul. In my twenty one years I can still count the times I've seen her lose her temper on one hand. Her selfless love, her keen eyes for those who are in need of a helping hand. She watched over her head start class with tenderness to make mother goose green with envy. Making Christmas for her students who otherwise would have nothing, dropping a tote of goods of at several doorsteps every December. Watching the kids play and show off the toys she ensured they got and never breathed a word. My mother who saved me and my three siblings from being separated at the negeltic of our birth parents. Took us all in and cared for us despite the fact myself and one of my brothers are broken. We don't socialise right. Neither of us make friends on our own. The few I do make take all I offer and lean on my shoulder when needed but once I have nothing left to give they turn and leave. By middle school I had completely given up on the concept of friends. And what should have been great news appeared. My brother wasn't broken. He just saw the world from a different viewpoint. He is super bright and amazing with anything math related. His social problems steam from the very thing that makes him do bright. He is not broken just different. But me. I'm still broken and no answers why. Still my mother gives me her love and compassion. My mother a saint in almost every measure and yet Heaven plays cruel games. Panic hangs over every member of my family. We glance upwards dreading the sight of death's blade floating above the center of our whole family. A medical complication besieged my mother. Why do I fail at being a daughter? When time has finally come for mother to need our help. I sit alone in a room hundred of miles away avoiding my phone and only giving the briefest of replies. Too scared of saying the wrong thing. Too scared I'll make things worse. 

Why do I always being conflict? 

Perhaps alone is how I should remain. I only seem to know how to fight and snap at those closest to me. I expect too much. I'm too desperate. I am too needy. I am to angry. I'm an introvert. I shouldn't need to talk to someone that much. Daily is far too often and weekly is barely tolerable. I'm supposed to be the strong woman who doesn't care what others think of me. I have my opinion and I play my part. I cling to my role with a iron grip. I am strong. I am independent. I don't need anyone to validate my ideas or feelings. I cling to my role so that I won't shatter under my mistakes. So those times I lose my temper and speak such horrible things can't bleed me dry. I hide the faults in my act as anger and yell, turning the volume into the glue that keeps me together. 

“Oh now we're going to throw a pity party? Oh poor picked on you”

The world doesn't care about the struggles I face. I am to suffer in silence. Even those whom I love dearly don't care about the way I break apart inside. So long as I never indulge the darkest thoughts. As long and blade and bullets never entertain my mind I am fine. I have no right to ask for a shoulder to cry on. I have my good health, a roof, food and a chance at higher education. I have never been haunted by thoughts of suicide. I have faced none of the struggles my friends and family face. I have it good. So why is it I can't stand to see pictures of myself? Why do I hate the person looking out from the mirror? Why do I choke back sobs every night? Why do I look back and regret all my dealing with those I should have been so much more careful with? 

I cling to the roll that I am strong. I continue to tell others they can come to me with their problems. I would be a terrible person if I push away my few friends when they needed a shoulder to lean on. So I take pieces of their problems even as the added weight pushes me deeper into these black feeling that turn my chest to lead. It's unmoving cold and slowly it's cracking the shell that keeps me together. I want to cry out for help. I feel like I'm drowning. At night it terrifies me and keeps awake, If I let myself relax the tears with no cause will slip down my cheeks. I cannot allow that, I haven't allowed it yet. In the light of day I'm dragged down and unable to find the will to do anything. But I'm fine. I can still stay silent so I must. Those around me are hurting worse. It would be selfish to asked for support when they all are trying to keep it together themself. 

I am sitting alone in a white room unable to call my loved ones. If I break and call them my broken edges will cut them. If I voice my concern I'll waste their time. If they try to lean on me I fear I'll shatter and let them down again. I am alone and don't even know if it should ever be fixed.


End file.
